


Life, Love, and the Headmistress

by kelly_chambliss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Female Friendship, Female Relationships, Female-Centric, Gen, Post - Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelly_chambliss/pseuds/kelly_chambliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neville Longbottom joins the Hogwarts staff as a "junior instructor in Herbology" and finds himself thinking about life, love, and Minerva McGonagall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life, Love, and the Headmistress

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic for the 2012 "Minerva_Fest" Fest on LJ.
> 
> Many thanks to my expert beta, The Real Snape.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

** August, 2005 **

From the road, the farmhouse looked no different from the others that dotted the Scottish countryside: made of local stone, with two small windows flanking a red door, two dormers pushing up from the roof, two stalwart chimneys standing sentinel at either end. Neville Longbottom found its moss-edged solidity comforting, and the sight went a ways towards calming him.

Not that he had any reason to feel anxious, not really. He was here on a legitimate errand for Professor Sprout -- _Pomona_ , he reminded himself sternly -- and the house's occupants would not be surprised by a visitor from Hogwarts. He had no reason to stand here with his heart fluttering and his palms sweating despite the misty chill of the Highland air. 

"Come on, Neville," he muttered, giving himself the little pep talk that had been habitual with him since childhood. When he'd been very young, he'd muffled his voice behind his hand and pretended that it was his father talking to him, bucking him up, saying that he knew Neville could do it, whatever "it" was. "I have faith in you, son," Neville would imagine his dad saying. And sometimes he'd feel almost brave.

Of course, he'd long since given up the pretense of being his father, but talking to himself still helped. "Steady on," he whispered. "You're a Hogwarts professor. Well. . .apprentice professor. You've faced the Carrows. And the snake. And Voldemort. And the most frightening thing of all. . ." he paused for effect, "Snape in Gran's hat!" 

He grinned at that image and immediately felt better. Yes, by Merlin, he'd faced the mental image of Severus Snape carrying a red purse and wearing a hat trimmed with a stuffed vulture -- and had lived to tell the tale. He could certainly face meeting Headmistress McGonagall in her own house.

~/~/~

Until about an hour ago, he hadn't even known that Headmistress McGonagall owned a house, much less that he would be visiting her there with a packet of top-secret papers under his arm. Okay, "top secret" was probably a bit of an exaggeration. But the papers _were_ from the Wizengamot, and Professor Sprout, er, _Pomona_ , had said that it was essential to get them to the headmistress at once.

"I was planning to Apparate them to her myself," Pomona explained, brushing at the hair falling into her eyes and leaving a smudge of fertilizer on her nose in the process, "but Clive Boot just fire-called to say he will be here any moment with the entire order of new dormitory linens, and I just won't feel right if I don't check all the supplies myself. Besides, I don't think that both the headmistress and the deputy ought to be off the premises when outside vendors are here, do you? And this week is the first time poor Minerva has had a chance to have any kind of summer holiday at all, poor dear, and I'd hate to interrupt it by calling her back. And I just don't want to risk sending official Wizengamot material by owl, not when they sent them here by special floo channel, because I -- "

"Professor, it's all right," Neville had broken in, stemming the tide. "I'll take them to her. I don't mind."

Pomona looked at him with a mixture of hope and concern. "Are you sure? I hate to turn you into an errand-boy in your first week on staff. . ."

Neville had grinned. "Isn't that what apprentices are supposed to be? At least in the beginning?"

"Well, I won't deny that it will be very nice to have your young legs about the place, Neville, dear. These old bones aren't as spry as they used to be," Pomona replied.

She'd cited her "old bones" and "failing eyesight" as her reasons for deciding to retire at the end of the next school year, and though Neville was both glad of the opportunity to be her replacement and sorry to see her go, he had to confess that he had yet to see any signs of this slowing-down that she kept talking about. Still, he'd been back at Hogwarts as "junior instructor in Herbology" for less than a week, so he supposed he should wait and see.

Pomona smiled and Levitated the Wizengamot despatch box over to him. "It's very good of you, Neville, thank you. Tell Minerva that we're all doing fine here, and she isn't to worry about a thing. Remind her she is not to leave her house until she's had a proper fortnight's holiday, and that's an order from her deputy."

Nodding at him, she turned and began to head out of the deputy's office; as far as Neville could tell, she still spent most of her time in the greenhouses.

"Professor, um, Pomona?" Neville had called.

"Yes, dear?"

"I, uh. . .where does Headmistress McGonagall live?"

Pomona had burst out laughing. "There, you see, it _is_ time for me to retire; I'd forget my wand if it wasn't charmed to me. Minerva and Will live in the countryside near Baile Glenfal, it's a little Highland wizarding village, you've probably never heard of it, but the house has been in Will's family for years. Wait a moment, and I'll make you a Portkey. I'm authorised, you know; another perk of being the deputy headmistress! I'll key it to the road outside the house, shall I?"

She'd seized an empty flowerpot from a shelf near her desk and touched it with her wand till it glowed blue. "Here you are," she said, holding it out.

"But who -- " Neville began to ask at the same moment that he reached automatically for the flowerpot. Before he could finish his question, he'd touched the key and at once had been jerked forward sickeningly into darkness.

~/~/~

And so that's how he'd found himself here on this remote Scottish road -- little more than a cart path, really -- outside the farmhouse that evidently was the personal home of Minerva McGonagall.

A home she shared, apparently, with someone called Will.

Her brother, maybe? Neville vaguely remembered his gran saying something about having run into Professor McGonagall's brother in Diagon Alley. . . 

But now that he thought about it, he was fairly sure she'd called him "Malcolm." "Thinks he's Lord Muck now his sister's on the Wizengamot," Gran had sniffed.

So. Not the brother. "Minerva and Will," Pomona had said. Will. He must be Professor McGonagall's husband. That was the only option left, really. If the professor shared her house with a man, they'd be married, of course; Neville didn't think the headmistress would countenance living together without matrimony any more than Gran did.

Professor McGonagall. . .married. As he turned the idea over in his mind, Neville realised with a start that he didn't want her to be. 

Of course, he couldn't think of one good reason why she shouldn't be married. . .or why he shouldn't be happy for her, as long as _she_ was happy, but it was just. . .well. . .

He just hoped Will would turn out to be another brother, that's all. He'd worry about the "why" of it later; just now, he had important papers to deliver.

Squaring his shoulders, Neville strode along the rutted lane to the house and rapped sharply on the door.

His knock was answered by an aged house-elf who looked at him with wary sternness. "You is selling something?" he asked. "Magazines to pay your way through school or magi-septic systems that will take all the headaches out of sewage?"

Neville couldn't help laughing. "No, no, nothing like that." He heard the pride creep into his voice as he said, "I'm from Hogwarts School. I work there. I've come to deliver a package to Headmistress McGonagall."

The elf eyed him for another few seconds, then nodded. "Beg pardon," he said, "but these days people is always selling things. If Mr Work-at-Hogwarts will please to come to the parlour, Mocksie will fetch Missy from the barn."

~/~/~

The parlour was a small room rather crowded with dark wood furniture and bookshelves, but it seemed lived-in and comfortable. The grate blazed cheerfully, an owl slept on a perch in the corner, and next to the fire, a fluffy kneazle surveyed Neville from the seat of a red wing-backed chair before yawning widely and snuggling back into the cushions.

A large round table under the front window was piled with books, quills, and parchments, several of which bore the Hogwarts crest -- evidently a headmistress's work followed her even on holiday. But the presence of a familiar tartan biscuit tin suggested that at least she didn't work in total spartan deprivation.

A murmur of voices in the corridor brought some of Neville's anxiety back: was he about to meet the mysterious Will? Part of him was curious to see the man, but on the whole, he thought he'd rather not. And anyway, Mocksie had said he would "fetch Missy."

But before Neville's mind could complete that thought, the parlour door opened, and Neville found himself looking at. . .

"Professor Grubbly-Plank?" he squeaked. (And it _was_ a squeak, he could hear the high pitch of it hanging in the room. How embarrassing.) What was _she_ doing here?

Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, erstwhile Care of Magical Creatures professor, took her pipe from her mouth with one hand and extended the other to Neville. 

"Ah, er, Longbottom, isn't it?" she said. "On staff now, Minerva says?"

She was just as Neville remembered: terse and no-nonsense, with short iron-grey hair topping a pleasantly-weathered face. But instead of the teaching robes of her Hogwarts days, she wore Muggle clothes: trousers and a thick woollen jumper under a well-worn waxed jacket. She smelt of clean horses and pipesmoke.

"That's right, Professor," Neville said, using her old title without thinking as he shook her hand. "I'm an apprentice teacher now. Just started this week."

"Not 'professor' any longer, thank Merlin," said Grubbly-Plank. Then her ruddy face turned a bit ruddier. "Er, no offence to your chosen profession, Longbottom. Or Min's, either. It's just. . .not the life for me, that's all. Not long-term. Anyway, say 'professor' around here, and you'll get Minerva. And 'Grubbly-Plank' is a mouthful, so just call me 'Will.'"

Will! Of course! Neville felt like an idiot for not having understood as soon as he'd seen her. Professor McGonagall wasn't married to some man called Will. She shared a house with Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank.

Which was just as unexpected in its own way, of course, but somehow it made Neville feel better. It was more like what he'd been used to at Hogwarts, where the teachers all lived together in the castle and looked after the students.

"Here to talk to Minerva, Mocksie tells me?" Will was saying. Somehow, unlike with Professor Sprout and Headmistress McGonagall, Neville had no problem thinking of Grubby-Plank by her first name.

He nodded. "Some papers came to Hogwarts for her from the Wizengamot," he said. "Professor Sprout thought they ought to be delivered personally."

"Min's gone to the village," Will said. "Don't expect her back for a couple of hours. Taking the local Council to task over some regulation or other. Opinionated, Minerva is. Well, you know that."

"Two hours?" Neville said faintly, thinking of all the work he needed to be doing.

"Oh, no need to wait," Will assured him. "Min has a charmed lock-box for any sensitive papers. Just set your parcel there -- " she jerked her head towards an empty triangular table next to the door -- "and it will disappear into an Unplottable space that only Minerva and some Ministry hot shots can access. Your papers will be safe as houses."

Neville must have looked dubious, because Will grinned and looked over at the ball of fur in the red chair. "Don't fret; security's tight here. There's Festus the ferocious watch-kneazle, too."

On hearing its name, Festus raised its head and blinked at them sleepily before dozing off again. 

Neville found himself grinning back at Will; he'd forgotten how at-ease she had made him feel, once he'd got used to her at Hogwarts.

He set the Wizengamot package on the small table and watched as it faded out of sight.

"Right, then," Will said, clamping her pipe between her teeth again. "I'll have Min owl you once she's got the papers. Good to see you, Longbottom. And if Pomona asks, tell her Min is resting as ordered."

"Is she?" asked Neville, rather boldly, he thought.

Will winked at him. "Aye. In her fashion."

~/~/~

** September, 2005 **

Two weeks later found Neville at the Leaky Cauldron, sitting with Hermione Granger Weasley as Ron collected a round from the bar: pints of bitter for himself and Neville, a gillywater for the heavily-pregnant Hermione.

"Ron and I want to stand you a drink in celebration of your new job," Hermione had owled a few days earlier. "And we won't have too many more opportunities before the baby is born. Do come, Neville. I want to hear all about Hogwarts and the professors!"

Neville had smiled as he'd read the parchment. Of course she did. Hermione had always loved the teachers, especially Professor McGonagall. In their school days, she'd fly to their Head of House's defence at the first hint of criticism of her, leaving Ron muttering darkly about "certain people so blinded by a bloody crush that they forget who their real friends are." Of course, since it was usually Ron who was complaining about McGonagall, he was the one who had borne the brunt of Hermione's tellings-off.

"I'll be there," Neville had owled back, "but don't blame me if you find stories of teacher-prep to be as boring as Binns!"

So here they were, tucked into the Cauldron's back booth. Hermione seemed to have a little trouble finding a comfortable sitting position, but otherwise, she was in fine spirits.

"Thanks for coming to London, Neville," she said, shifting her weight once more as Ron returned with the drinks. "I would have loved to go up to the Three Broomsticks, but there's no way I can Apparate just now. So tell me. . .what's the most exciting thing so far about working at Hogwarts?"

"Or maybe we should ask," said Ron, "whether you can even talk about 'excitement' and 'Hogwarts' in the same breath. I mean, now that there are no Dark Lords and three-headed dogs around, it's just kids and classes and marking, right?"

"Ron!" Hermione chided. "It's Neville's new career. Don't criticise it."

"I wasn't, honest!" said Ron, taking a swallow of beer. "Most of the kind of excitement we had at school, I can do without. And when little Ron gets there" -- he patted Hermione's stomach with a smile -- "I don't want him to find anything more exciting than a Quidditch match. And a few good feasts."

"Or little Hermione," Hermione said immediately, and Neville could tell that this was an old joke between them; she and Ron beamed at each other.

"No three-headed dogs," Neville agreed. "There's none of _that_ sort of excitement at Hogwarts now, and I'm with you, Ron -- I can definitely do without all that. But I'm having a good time so far."

"Were you nervous about term starting?" Hermione asked.

"Well. . .some. But I didn't really have time to be, since we were so busy. There's a lot more to do in getting ready for term than we ever knew as students."

Neville started to explain and got so enthused that he only realised how long he'd been talking when he saw Ron look wistfully at his empty glass. "Here, let me get another round," he said, but Ron jumped up first. 

"No, it's on us," he insisted. "To celebrate you teaching at Hogwarts." Then he grinned, looking just like a schoolboy plotting mischief, and clapped Neville on the shoulder. "Better you than me, mate, that's all I can say."

Hermione watched him fondly as he headed off to the bar. "He'd never be happy as a teacher," she said. "But I can tell _you_ will be, Neville. I'm glad you and Professor Sprout get along so well. But how is Professor McGonagall? What's it like to work with her?"

"I don't actually see much of her, except at the high table," Neville replied. "There were a couple of staff meetings before term started, but she wasn't at the castle when I first arrived. She was on holiday."

"Really?" Hermione said, looking interested. "Where did she go? I'm curious. As students, we never got to know anything about the professors' personal lives."

"Well. . ." Neville began and then trailed off, not sure how much he ought to say. But then he decided he was being foolish. This was Hermione, after all, and it wasn't as if there was some Statute of Secrecy about Hogwarts teachers. If he couldn't talk to his friends, then who?

"Well, about McGonagall's personal life. . ." he said.

Ron joined them, plunking the new drinks on the table. "On to McGonagall now, are we?" he said. "I didn't think it would take long. Say, Nev. . .you don't have to call her 'Minerva,' do you?"

Neville laughed. "I don't have to, no, but most of the staff does use given names, so I try to. I admit, I'm still not completely used to saying 'Pomona' and 'Minerva,' but I expect it will get easier. Of course, some people do just say 'the headmistress' or even call her 'Headmistress' instead of 'Minerva,' but I don't think she cares either way."

"Headmistress McGonagall. . ." Hermione said, rather dreamily. "It just sounds so right."

"What were you going to say about her personal life, Neville?" Ron asked, looking slightly apprehensive. "Do we want to know?"

"Of course we do," said Hermione, all dreaminess gone. "Go on, Neville."

Taking a deep breath, Neville launched into a detailed description of the papers from the Wizengamot, Sprout's request that he deliver them, her mention of the mysterious "Will' who lived with the headmistress in Baile Glenfal.

"The wizarding village?" said Hermione.

"You've heard of it?"

She rolled her eyes just as she had done so often in the Gryffindor common room. "It's in _Hogwarts: A History_. Historical rumour says that the Founders used iron from a goblin forge near there. But never mind that. Who is Will?"

"Professor McGonagall lives with a man?" Ron looked aghast. "Don't. . .don't tell me she's got some sort of husband."

"And why shouldn't he tell you that, if it's true?" demanded Hermione. "What would be wrong with that?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," said Ron, his brow furrowed. "It's just. . ."

"I felt the same way," Neville admitted. "I didn't want her to be married."

"Why?" Hermione stared at them. "Because married people sometimes have sex, and you can't imagine teachers doing it?"

Ron plastered a goggle-eyed expression on his face. "What?" he gasped, his eyes on Hermione's middle. "Married people sometimes have sex? Really?"

Hermione straightened her shoulders and tried to look prim and stern, but then spoiled the effect by laughing. "So I've heard," she said. "All right, Ron, point taken. But please, you two. Don't tell me that you can't handle the idea of teachers having a sex life."

Ron shook head. "Not, it's not that. I mean, it's true I don't want to make mental pictures of them having it off or anything, but not because they're teachers. I feel that way about anybody I actually know. They can do whatever they want, I just don't want to visualise it. I mean. . ." Red-faced, he drained about half his pint in one gulp.

"No, Hermione, it's not sex," Neville agreed.

"Well, what, then?"

"I'm not sure I can explain it, but I've been thinking about it," Neville said. And he had. Since his return from McGonagall's home, he'd turned the problem over in his mind. 

"At first," he said finally, "I just felt kind of stupid for not knowing she was married. Not that there was any reason I _should_ have known, of course. Obviously the professors don't tell students that sort of thing, and let's face it, kids don't usually think much about their teachers' private lives. But it just seemed that, when I got older, I should have paid more attention. Gran was always ranting about Professor McGonagall -- 'insufferable woman this' and 'dreadful woman that' -- and I just thought, could she have ever said something about McGonagall's husband and I'm just so oblivious I didn't notice?"

"You're not oblivious, Neville," Hermione said, squeezing his hand. "You paid more attention to things than most of us. I still feel bad that I'd been your friend all those years and didn't know about your parents until that Christmas at St Mungo's."

Neville shook his head. "No, don't feel bad. It's not like I talked about them then, and anyway, it was years ago. Besides, I almost wish that it _was_ just that I was oblivious. About Professor McGonagall, I mean."

"Why?" Ron was interested now.

"Well," said Neville, "I'm not saying this is how you feel, Ron, but for me, I think it's just selfishness. As a kid, I just thought of Professor McGonagall as, you know, belonging to _us._ To Gryffindors. She was always there, ready to look after us; we could go to her rooms and fetch her at any hour of the night, and she would come straight off. . ."

He thought back to that terrifying time that Harry Potter's dreams had been invaded by Voldemort, how Harry had awakened shrieking and vomiting, and Neville felt the way he did when he visited his parents, helpless and useless. So he had done the only thing he could think of to make it right -- he had run to get Professor McGonagall. 

He'd kept banging on her door even though he knew the portrait who guarded her rooms had gone to wake her, and he'd almost fallen inside when she finally opened it.

"Longbottom! What on earth. . .?"

He'd seized her hand in his agitation, pulling her into the corridor, babbling about Harry, he's sick, please come, he's really sick, please, please. . .

He could still see how she'd looked as they'd hurried towards the dormitories, hastily tying her ugly tartan dressing gown around her spare frame, shoving her glasses crookedly on her nose, barking questions, the worry sharp in her voice. 

At some point he had taken her hand again, and she hadn't let go until they reached Harry's bed.

"It didn't matter what the problem was," Neville went on to Ron and Hermione. "I mean, it could be Azkaban escapees on the loose or just an upset stomach, and she'd be there, saying 'what's wrong, where do you hurt, what do you need, how can I help?'"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, we all knew she cared about us, but. . .I'm sorry, Neville, I'm afraid I just don't see how that means you're selfish, and she shouldn't have got married."

" _I_ see," Ron said, finishing the last of his pint. "Um, I think."

Neville and Hermione both turned to look at him, and Neville hoped his face didn't betray his surprise. After all, Ron wasn't dim, and he'd already said he felt the same as Neville did about Professor McGonagall being married. Still, it wasn't often that Ron understood what Hermione didn't.

"It's. . ." Ron began, his face reddening again. "It's like. . .well, like Neville says, she was always there, day or night, and well, of course that gives the impression that we. . .her students, the Gryffindors, I mean. . . were her whole life. That she chose _us_ , you know? And not some git called Will."

Neville nodded vigorously. "That's it, Ron, that's it exactly. And the selfishness comes -- not in thinking something like that when you're eleven or whatever, because it's a logical thing for a kid to think. But on some level, apparently I was still thinking it a month ago. It just seemed _right_ ; it seemed the way the world was supposed to be. That a teacher should give her whole life to me and never want anything or anyone else."

Hermione chewed her gillywater straw thoughtfully. "I see what you both mean," she said. "It's like a child whose single mother suddenly brings home a stranger and says, 'Meet your new daddy.'"

"Something like that," Neville said, though he wasn't sure if it was, quite. You wanted your mother to love you, of course, and of course you loved her back with so much love that it hurt to breathe. But that's not how Neville felt about Headmistress McGonagall. Oh, he respected and admired her, and now that he was grown up and working with her, he was coming to like her as a person (even if she still scared him a little). But he didn't feel that desperate tender clutching in his chest, the way he did when he thought about his own mother. 

So no, he didn't think he loved McGonagall like a mother. And he didn't know why he disliked the idea of a "husband Will" but didn't mind the notion of a female Will. Was he afraid of the whole idea of marriage? What did the Muggles call it? A "wed-ipal" complex or something? Did this mean he himself was going to end up alone?

Merlin, it was all making his head ache. Neville gave himself a mental shake. He shouldn't try to think such deep thoughts after two quick pints on a pretty empty stomach.

He looked up to find Ron and Hermione gazing at him expectantly. 

"Well?" Ron said. "What was he like?"

"Who?"

" _Who?_ McGonagall's husband, you twit! This Will bloke."

Neville couldn't resist teasing them. "Oh, Will's not her husband."

Ron looked delighted and elbowed Hermione. "So old McGonagall's living in sin, huh? That's one for the books, that is."

"Don't call her names," Hermione said automatically, again taking Neville back to their days in the Gryffindor common room. "And no one thinks of it as 'living in sin' nowadays, Ron. Marriage isn't the be-all and end-all for everyone, you know. People can -- "

"All right, all right," Ron said, putting up his hands in mock surrender. "As long as it was the be-all and end-all for us, I don't care if old. . .if _Professor_ McGonagall takes up with a different man every week."

"Well," said Neville, enjoying himself, "as far as I know, she hasn't even taken up with one man."

"Here, Nev," said Ron, putting his hand on Neville's forehead, "are you feeling all right, mate? What about Will?"

Hermione looked amused. "No more beer for you, Neville. Time to switch to gillywater. Didn't you just tell us the headmistress was living with a man called Will?"

Neville rarely had the chance to get the better of Hermione, and he couldn't help but make the most of it.

"Never said Will was a man," he replied. "Because she's not. Remember Professor Grubbly-Plank? _Wilhelmina_ Grubbly-Plank? 'Will' for short."

"McGonagall lives with Grubbly-Plank?" Ron demanded. "Seriously?"

"Well, out of term time, anyway," Neville nodded.

"'Live together' how, Neville?" Hermione asked. "As in -- they're a couple? Or just housemates?"

"That I don't know." Not that he hadn't been wondering, of course. 

"You don't know?" Ron was incredulous. "I hate to tell you, Neville old chap, but that's not exactly an unimportant point."

"Well, Ron, it's not as if he could just come out and ask them," Hermione said. "Besides, does it matter whether they're friends or lovers or -- "

"Or just thrifty?" Neville said with a smile.

"Don't know what McGonagall's got to be thrifty about," muttered Ron, sidetracked. "She must be pulling in a pretty good knut or two as the headmistress of Hogwarts. More than Dad earns at the Ministry, I'll bet you that. Well, what do you say, Neville? One more pint?"

Without waiting for an answer, he headed back to the bar.

Hermione raised a wry eyebrow. "Do you get the impression that Ron is trying to avoid. . .how did he put it? 'Visualising the professors having it off?'"

Neville laughed. "I don't really want to go there myself, to tell you the truth. Not that I'd have any problem with it," he added hastily. "It's just. . ."

"Not our business," finished Hermione. "Anyway, sex shouldn't matter. It's only part of a relationship. Or sometimes not even a part of it. You can love someone without wanting to have sex with them, someone like a professor, or. . .or whoever, they can be really important to you without. . .I mean, I'm just speaking generally, of course. . ."

She broke off, flustered, and suddenly seemed very interested in the bottom of her empty gillywater glass.

Neville wanted to reassure her that she hadn't revealed anything he hadn't already known; he'd long been aware of her feelings for Professor McGonagall. But he didn't want to embarrass her further, so he said nothing.

After a moment, Hermione took a breath and leant back. When she spoke again, she sounded wistful. 

"I do hope they're happy."

~/~/~

** October 2005 **

The happiness, or lack thereof, of Minerva McGonagall and Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank was the last thing that concerned Neville's gran. He came to Sunday breakfast with her when he could, and she was unimpressed when he told her he'd been to the headmistress's house.

"Still sharing digs with Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, is she?" Gran said, putting another buttered scone on his plate. "I'm not surprised. Cheaper that way, of course. She's got every knut she's ever earned, that Minerva McGonagall. Tighter than a grindylow's arse."

Neville was able to stop himself from choking on his tea, but only because he'd slowly got used to Gran's talking to him more like an equal. Their relationship had been different since the war -- better, for the most part. She was proud of him now in the way that he'd always wanted her to be when he was little, and he liked to think that her increased regard wasn't based only on his willingness to wield a sword against the Dark Lord's snake.

That willingness had been as much recklessness and fatalism as bravery, though Neville had come to understand that "bravery" was a far more complicated and ambiguous trait than he'd realised at age eleven, when he'd stood in the Great Hall trembling with the fear that he would not be judged worthy of being Sorted into Gryffindor.

So he wanted Gran to value him for the person he was -- someone still often worried and anxious, someone who wanted quiet and security and who would never be an Auror -- and not for some fantasy she might have of him as a world-saving warrior.

And he thought she _did_ value him for himself. She wasn't thrilled with his decision to teach at Hogwarts, but she'd stopped badgering him about it. Well, mostly. She seemed to object as much to the fact that he'd be working with Minerva as to his refusal to join the Aurors.

"You've never told me why you dislike her so much," Neville said now, helping himself to jam. 

"Who wouldn't?" Gran snorted. "I've known her since we were both eleven years old, and she's always been bold as brass. Has opinions about everything and doesn't mind who she tells them to. Thinks she knows better than everyone else and is always more than happy to tell you how to run your life and your grandson. Wants her own way in everything."

Neville grinned. "Actually, she sounds a bit like you, Gran." He would never have dared to say such a thing a few years ago, but so do war and years make grown-ups of us all, he thought.

Gran glared and fingered the wand by her plate. "You watch yourself, young man. I can still cast a spanking hex just as well as I ever could. All right, I may be outspoken, I'm the first to admit it, but Minerva is a know-it-all and a sarcastic one at that. Just because you can think of clever and witty things to say doesn't mean you should say them, and say them in front of other people's beaux, too."

Neville winced in sympathy. "Did she say something cruel about you in front of Granddad?" he asked. He'd been on the receiving end of sharp tongues often enough to know exactly how badly they could sting.

"Oh, I daresay she thought she was justified," Gran said, her too-airy tone of voice telling Neville that Minerva had most likely been just that. "But then, she always thinks herself justified. She's never wrong, our Minerva -- just ask her."

She leant forward to point a finger at Neville. "Now, don't you let her push you around up at that school. Because she will if you give her half a chance. I think Wilhelmina's the only person who ever completely stands up to her. Well, and Dumbledore did, of course."

"I was surprised to find out that she lived with Professor Grubbly-Plank. . .Will, I mean," said Neville, curious to learn what Gran might know about the situation.

"Oh, they've shared that house for years," Gran said. "They've got used to each other, and it's probably too much bother to change things now, but I think in the beginning they moved in together just to save money. In our day, it wasn't easy for single women to get by on their own, you know. They never made as much as men, of course, because they didn't have families to support. . .well, that was the theory. And then no one expected them to stay long in a job, anyway. A lot of people felt witches had a duty to marry and have families, and I can't say I disagree even now, not with the magical birth rate being what it is."

"Can't people have families without marrying? Or at least without quitting their jobs?" Neville asked. In the past, he would never have started a political argument with Gran -- she was just as opinionated as she claimed McGonagall was -- but lately, he'd started to find them fun, if often infuriating.

"Now, Neville Longbottom, I don't want to hear any nonsense about single parents or magical insemination or living together without benefit of marriage. There's a reason such social institutions exist: they give stability to the world, and a child deserves to come into that world the old-fashioned way, made by parents who love each other and who will love him. A child needs his mother and father, and anything else just cheats him!"

Though she would have denied it, Gran's eyes were filled with tears, and Neville understood that she wasn't talking about "a child." She was talking about him.

He reached out and took her hand, her fingers thin as bird bones in his own. "I wasn't cheated, Gran," he said. "Not at all. I was raised by someone who loved and wanted me, and that's what matters." 

Gran sniffed and might have given his hand a little squeeze before she pulled away. "Well, at least there's one benefit of some people staying single," she said. "The wizarding world never had to cope with any child of Minerva McGonagall's. Can you imagine what an insufferable little know-it-all it would have been?"

"Gran, do you think she and Will are. . .well, together?" Neville asked. He'd been giving the question more thought since his evening out with Ron and Hermione, and however much he might agree with Hermione in theory that it was none of their business, he still wanted to know. 

"Together? Well, of course they are. I told you. They've been together in that house since Will's great-grandmother died and left it to her in. . .oh, 1948 or '49, it must have been. They haven't been there the whole time, of course -- Minerva's been at Hogwarts, and Wilhelmina spent a few seasons at that Welsh dragon preserve. But otherwise, yes, they've shared that house together for years."

"No, that's not what I mean," said Neville. "I mean, are they romantically together? You know, like a couple or partners or something."

Gran frowned at him. "Are you asking me if they are lesbians?"

"Well. . .yeah, I suppose."

"You disappoint me," she said, stirring her tea with such vigour that it slopped over the side of the cup. "If that isn't just like you young people these days. Everything has to be advertised and named and explained and exposed to the entire world. And it all has to be about sex, of course. Two women share a house, and right away you assume they're in each other's beds. Such a thing would never occur to someone of _my_ generation, I can assure you.

"Now, here's the truth of the matter: Minerva and Wilhelmina are two single ladies who live together as a way to share expenses and companionship. And that's that."

Neville didn't think "that was that" at all. Or at least, he hoped it wasn't -- he wanted that cosy Highland cottage to house more than just financial prudence. He thought Minerva deserved some happiness, and she and Will seemed like they would be good together: both no-nonsense and outspoken and loyal and humourful. . .and tough enough to cope with each other.

But he held his tongue; there was never much point in continuing a discussion once Gran reached the "pronouncement" stage. So he said only, "All right, Gran."

"Hmpf," she said. "Anyway, you're asking the wrong question. The bigger mystery is how Wilhelmina has managed to put up with Minerva for nearly sixty years. Here, have some more bacon, Neville, it'll stick to your ribs. You're looking far too peaked these days."

~/~/~

** December 2005 **

The invitation appeared on Neville's study table one afternoon in early December. Written on Hogwarts-crested parchment in the headmistress's familiar emerald ink, it read, "Dear Professor Longbottom, I hope you and a guest will be able to join me and Deputy Sprout at a Yuletide gathering for Hogwarts staff at my home near Baile Glenfal. Friday evening, 22 December, Eight o'clock. Portkeys will be provided." 

No mention of Will, but then it was to be a school-related affair, obviously. 

After an initial flutter of nervousness -- a formal party at the headmistress's! -- Neville realised he was looking forward to going, even though he'd just be seeing the same people he saw every day. But it would be good to get out of the castle -- he'd had little chance to do so these last weeks -- and he admitted to himself that he'd be interested to see the headmistress's house again. 

Despite Gran's reaction, he had continued to speculate about Minerva and Will, though not pruriently, he hoped. Hermione was right: it was love that counted; sex shouldn't matter. And it didn't, except. . .well, except that it did. Or at least, he wanted it to. He wanted the headmistress to have someone special in her life, and he wanted there to be sex, because frankly -- and Neville admitted it freely to himself -- he was coming to doubt the benefits of celibacy.

He'd recently struck up a correspondence with Hannah Abbott, who was now working at the Leaky Cauldron and whom he'd seen last month on the one night he'd had time to socialise. Well, he could hardly have refused to meet Harry and Ron and Ginny and a few others to celebrate the birth of Rose Granger Weasley. Ron had been grinning so widely that Neville thought his face might split in two. 

Somehow Neville had ended up spending most of the evening talking to Hannah. "Can I write you?" he'd asked as he prepared to leave, and she had dimpled and nodded. So far, they'd exchanged a few letters, and he'd been planning to ask her out to dinner over the Christmas holiday.

Now he had a better idea.

Sitting down at his desk, he pulled quill and parchment towards him. "Dear Hannah," he wrote, "would you be interested in attending the Hogwarts staff Yule party with me? At Headmistress McGonagall's house?"

~/~/~

"Neville, this is exciting," Hannah whispered as the Portkey deposited them on the small gravel oval in front of the professor's home, where dozens of candles blazed brightly through the windows. "I never thought about the teachers living anywhere other than Hogwarts. And McGonagall really stays here with Professor Grubby-Plank?"

Neville had called for Hannah at the Leaky Cauldron and had given her a crash-course in staff background over a quick half-pint before they left.

"Has for years, or so my Gran says," he answered, acutely aware of Hannah's hand tucked into the crook of his arm.

"Are they lovers or something?" Hannah asked, still whispering. Neville smothered a grin; maybe Gran was right about "young people" and sex: it was the first question all of his friends asked.

"Could be, but I don't know," he whispered back. "I -- "

Further conversation was cut off by the arrival of Filius Flitwick behind them, then Aurora Sinistra behind him, and Neville and Hannah were soon swept up in festive greetings.

The party was more crowded than Neville expected, with Ministry personnel as well as Hogwarts staffers and guests milling through the magically-expanded house. He saw Minister Shacklebolt deep in conversation with Will, who was wearing a red-and-green-striped tie and a dark-green robe over black breeches. Pomona, her hat bristling with holly, was laughing in a corner with her "gentleman friend," Felton Beamish, who ran a magical plant nursery in Aberdeen. (Neville now considered himself quite an old hand at meeting professors' partners; he hadn't even blinked when Pomona had introduced him to Felton earlier in the term.) Mr Filch was standing next to Irma Pince at the drinks table and trying to entice Festus the kneazle to come out to be petted.

Neville might have been content to stand and people-watch all evening, but Hannah nudged him towards the parlour. "You should probably say hello to the headmistress, Neville," she said. "As your hostess, you know."

"Right," Neville said. He was getting better at handling social situations, and he looked forward to presenting Hannah, who was looking lovely in pale-blue dress robes.

But the headmistress, in a high hat and green tartan, was surrounded three-deep by Ministry people, and Neville could see that getting to her would take a while.

"Maybe we should wait," he said to Hannah.

"All right. Oh, Neville, I know!" Hannah's eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint that Neville was coming to recognise. She nodded at the carved wooden staircase at the back of the entry hall. "Let's go upstairs."

"Oh, I don't -- " Neville began, but Hannah was already pulling him towards the steps.

"It will be fine," she insisted. "I'm sure the loo's up there, so it's not as if we'll be prying. And I'd like to see the rest of the house, wouldn't you?"

She was halfway up the stairs before she finished speaking, and Neville, not too reluctantly, followed her. He had no intention of snooping, but he couldn't deny that he was curious. Surely it wouldn't do any harm to glance quickly into the upstairs rooms, would it? On his way to the loo?

~/~/~

Hannah was right: there was a bathroom upstairs at the end of a short corridor. And doors to two other rooms.

Had those doors been closed, Neville would not have opened them, of that he was sure. But they weren't closed. They stood wide, and what's more, each room was dimly lit.

So while Hannah hurried to the loo, Neville stood and looked.

There was one fairly large bedroom on either side of the corridor; each had a fireplace at its far end, with candles shining softly on the mantelpieces. And each room was as imprinted with its occupant as if there had been an identifying name plate on the door. 

The left-hand room held no fewer than three owl perches, while on a long table near the window stood several animal containers. Most seemed empty, but one showed the tell-tale glimmer of a magical barrier, and Neville thought he could see a small, furry mound asleep inside. Under the table was a round cushiony bed occupied by a crup with a white bandage around its front paw; the crup looked at Neville and thumped its forked tail, but otherwise made no effort to get up.

There was a single bed in the near corner, its neatly-tucked brown counterpane matching the bed curtain that was flung rather casually over the top of the frame. Some carpet slippers had been pushed half under the bed, and a pair of men's braces hung from a straight-backed chair near the wardrobe.

A shelf next to the fireplace contained a pipe rack and tins of tobacco; the bedside table held a branched candlestick, a small clock, and a picture frame. After a little struggle with himself, Neville took one step into the room to look at the photo. He doubted that it would be anything so obvious as a portrait of Minerva, but then again, perhaps. . .

But the frame held a picture of a grinning, mud-daubed little boy gripping a large toad with one hand and waving wildly with the other. The corner of the photo had been charmed to read, in blinking green letters, "Auntie from Ian."

And if Neville had had any doubts as to who occupied the right-hand bedroom, the tartan bed-hangings would have put them to rest. It was subdued tartan, to be sure, but tartan all the same, emerald green and black. An emerald-upholstered armchair sat near the fire; a book left on its seat was the only thing in the room that was not scrupulously tidy.

The walls might have been the same cream colour as those in Wilhelmina's room, but it was hard to tell, since they were covered with bookshelves. Photographs stood here and there among the books, though Neville probably -- he thought -- would have resisted the temptation to look at them had Hannah not chosen that moment to finish in the loo and join him.

"Is this the headmistress's room?" she asked, giving Neville a little thrill as she took his arm again. "Or do she and Will share?"

"I don't think so," Neville answered, shaking his head. "They both have single beds." He was disappointed, he couldn't deny it.

"Hmmm," said Hannah. "Well, I know what I'd do if I were a Transfiguration professor who didn't want anyone to know I was sleeping with my housemate. I'd make sure all our things were in obvious separate rooms, and then I'd transfigure our nice big bed into a single one."

Neville looked at her in surprise. "Wow, Hannah, that's very Slytherin of you," he said.

She laughed and tugged him towards the bedroom door. "I don't think the Headmistress would mind if we looked at her books, do you?" she said. "Come on."

"Well, I don't know. . ."

"Oh, come on, Neville. She left the door open and the candles lit. I'm going in," said Hannah, and did.

Neville followed, torn between curiosity and the sort of dread he'd once felt when he'd worried what would happen if Gran found the pornographic magazine that Michael Corner had given him after fourth year. Neville had tried to charm it to look like a Quidditch yearbook, but he hadn't done a very good job, and all the players in the Chudley Cannons team picture kept flashing large naked breasts. Even the men.

"I don't know, Hannah," he said again, but she had stopped before a set of photographs.

"Look, this must be Professor McGonagall as a little girl," she said, and Neville could longer resist. He joined Hannah at the bookshelves.

The picture was old, a Muggle photo, Neville thought. Black and white and unmoving, it showed a solemn-faced child with black plaits holding the hand of a pretty dark-haired woman who had a tiny baby in her other arm. An equally solemn-faced man in an old-fashioned Muggle suit and religious collar stood next to them. 

"And those must be her parents," Hannah said. "Her mother is beautiful, isn't she? And look here -- her brothers?"

Another, later Muggle photo showed an older version of the solemn child, half-smiling this time, holding two little boys by the hands. A couple of other photos showed all three older still, until finally the boys stood taller than their sister, who was now recognisable as Minerva McGonagall, a thin black-haired girl with glasses smiling up at a dashingly-handsome brother who had his arm around her.

There was a picture of the professor in teaching robes standing on the steps of Hogwarts with the other Heads of Houses -- a waving Pomona, a grinning Filius who pointed his wand in duelling-stance toward the camera, and, Neville saw with a jolt, a shadowy Severus Snape who kept to the background and whose face somehow never quite came into focus.

But there were no photos of Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank.

So engrossed in the pictures had Hannah and Neville become that they didn't hear the approach of Pomona until she spoke right behind them.

"Checking out Minerva's books, dears? I think she's got more since I was here last. I keep telling her, one of these days she's going to have to add a magical third floor."

Neville started and was certain he looked as guilty as a student who was out of bed after hours. "Um, yes, a lot of books," he said, feeling his face burn. "And, um, Hannah had to use the loo." 

Which was a ridiculous thing to say, since clearly Hannah wasn't even near the loo, but Pomona seemed not to notice how flustered he was. "You'll probably want to come downstairs soon," she said. "The Minister always says a few words and makes a little toast to Hogwarts. With champagne! You won't want to miss that!" And with a parting smile and a "so good to see you, Hannah, my dear," Pomona headed loo-ward.

"I hope she doesn't think we were snooping," Neville said miserably to Hannah.

"Well, we were, just a bit," she replied. "But don't worry about it, Neville; we didn't mean any harm, and we didn't do any. It's not as if we're looking at anything secret. And speaking of secrets. . ." 

Her mischievous expression crossed her face as she punched his arm lightly and then gestured to a photograph of a unicorn standing in front of what Neville recognised as the farmhouse stables. "If you ask me, that's no unicorn," Hannah said. "I'll bet you a galleon it's a charmed picture of Professor Grubbly-Plank."

~/~/~

The next morning, Neville indulged in the unaccustomed luxury of starting the day with a leisurely cup of tea in bed, smiling as he leant back against his pillows and sipped, his mind drifting back to the previous evening.

Despite the awkwardness of being found in the headmistress's bedroom, he counted the staff Yule party a great success.

After he and Hannah had gone back downstairs, they'd wandered into the Christmas-trimmed parlour. The tree, though of course much smaller than its Hogwarts counterparts, was just as beautiful, twinkling with delicate touches of silver and gold. 

"Your handiwork, Pro -- er, Filius?" Neville asked Professor Flitwick, who was standing nearby.

"Oh, no," Filius had said. "I get my fill of tree-decoration at Hogwarts. No, this one is Will's creation, and a lovely one it is, too -- she's always been a dab hand at charms."

He nodded towards the group of people clustered at the fireplace, just in time for Neville to see Will sidle up to Minerva and begin to whisper to her. Minerva bent her head down to listen, a smile creeping slowly across her features. Will, he could see, was also grinning, and the two exchanged nods and satisfied glances as Will moved away.

"See that?" Hannah had murmured at Neville's side. "They are _so_ together."

"Why do you want them to be?" Neville couldn't help wondering. It was a question he had asked of himself.

"Well, because it would be nice for them, of course. And because it would be so romantic."

"Are you in favour of romance, then, Miss Abbott?" Neville heard himself say archly, astounded at his own boldness. Was he actually _flirting_?

The mischievous look was gone as Hannah turned to him and replied, quite seriously, "Oh, yes. Very much."

And when, later, he'd Apparated her back to her digs near the Leaky Cauldron, she'd solved his good-night-kiss dilemma by pulling his head down to hers and kissing him soundly.

"I'm off on Tuesday," she said. "Look for my owl."

Then she was gone, leaving Neville smiling in the chilly London night.

~/~/~

** January 2006 **

What with one thing and another (one of the things being a lot of time spent with Hannah), Neville didn't get a chance to talk with Pomona about the staff Christmas party until the beginning of the next term.

But he'd continued to feel worried about the whole "Headmistress's bedroom" business, so he brought it up to Pomona one afternoon as they repotted the winter Flitterblooms.

"Pomona, about the party at Minerva's," he began, and she cut in enthusiastically.

"Oh, yes, wasn't that a good time! Felton and I agreed -- one of the best Hogwarts parties in a quite a while. Albus always used to host it at the Three Broomsticks, which was nice, but you know. . .not much of a change from ordinary life. I was glad when Minerva took over and decided to have it at her own house. Of course, after the first few minutes I hardly see Felton; he always ends up out in the stables with Will, talking about thestral breeding."

Neville looked up, momentarily diverted. "I thought thestral-breeding was illegal."

"It is, outside of the Ministry-approved program. But Will is one of their official breeders; she's been for years. Very good at it, Felton says. Some of her animals are part of the Hogwarts herd, you know."

"No, I didn't," Neville said. "But, Pomona, about, well. . .about Hannah and me being in the Headmistress's bedroom. We were just looking around, but, I mean. . .I know we had no business to be there, and I, well. . ." He trailed off, not sure where he was going with this. He suspected he just wanted Pomona to assure him that everything was all right.

Which she did. "Oh, Neville, really! Do you think I believed for a moment that you were doing something you shouldn't? I know you're not the prying sort. And anyway, if Minerva hadn't wanted anyone in there, she would have warded the door. But people often want to look at her books, and she's happy to let them. In fact, I usually have to go in there to shoo Irma out; if I didn't, she'd spend the entire party sitting in Minerva's armchair with a pile of books on her lap and wouldn't socialise at all."

"I wasn't really looking at the books, though," Neville said, determined to make a clean breast of things. He wouldn't feel comfortable having Pomona think more highly of him than he deserved. "I was looking at the pictures."

"Well, and what of it? Minerva wouldn't leave them sitting out if she minded people seeing them. Think of who you're dealing with, Neville -- between them, Minerva and Will are capable of charming and transfiguring the whole world into something else entirely. If they wanted to, they could certainly change a few family photos into. . .oh, I don't know, pictures of sunsets on Crete or something. Or at least use a Notice-Me-Not charm."

Neville thought of what Hannah had said about the picture of the unicorn and busied himself with the Flitterbloom pots; he thought he was probably blushing.

"What did you think you were going to see, anyway?" Pomona asked, laughing. "Pictures of Minerva cavorting with Dark wizards?"

Suddenly she looked at Neville sharply and shook a dirt-tipped finger in his direction, a knowing smile on her face.

"Ah, I know what you were doing! You were trying to figure out the situation between Minerva and Will, weren't you?"

Neville knew he should have known better than to try to keep anything from her. People who thought Hufflepuffs were not as smart as Ravenclaws were people who had not met Pomona Sprout.

"Well, I, er. . ." he stammered, blushing now in earnest. "I was, well, uh. . .curious?"

Pomona gave a little sigh, though not an impatient one. "Oh, Neville, dear, you're not the only one. People have been speculating about that relationship almost since the day Minerva moved her traps into the house. Are they friends or lovers or just flatmates or what? I confess, I've wondered myself."

Neville felt himself breathe easier, and he risked a small smile. "Really? My gran says no-one over about thirty would ever wonder such a thing."

Pomona's snort of derision was worthy of Gran herself. "Don't you believe it. And don't you believe she believes it, either."

"It's not all about sex, Gran says."

"Well, she's got the right of it there. I don't know if it's about sex at all with Minerva and Will, to tell you the truth. I don't think anyone does, except them."

Pomona's hands stilled, and she stood for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. "I suppose you're wondering," she said at last, "why I've never asked Minerva or Will about their relationship. I mean, we've been friends, the three of us, for more years than I care to count."

"Well, it can be a delicate topic even with friends," Neville said, trying to imagine what circumstance could ever make him ask Seamus and Dean whether they slept together.

"It can be, but that's not why I don't ask," Pomona said. She returned to work on the seedlings. "It's because it doesn't matter."

"That's what Gran said, and Hermione, too," said Neville, beginning to feel exasperated at last. "But _why_ doesn't it matter? Why shouldn't it be important for Minerva and Will to find love and sexual satisfaction?"

And then it all came out in a rush, how he'd initially thought "Will" must be Minerva's husband and had disliked the idea, but hadn't been at all sorry to learn that Will was a woman, how he'd been happy for them, but now. . .

"Now it seems like there may not be any 'them' at all," he finished. "They're what -- eighty or so? That's almost old, Pomona, and all they've got after all those years of living is someone to share expenses with?"

"Of course there's a 'them,' Pomona said, Levitating the Flitterbloom pots to a shelf under the special plant candles and cleaning the worktable a quick charm. "Come along, Neville. Time for tea."

~/~/~

"Of course there's a 'them,'" she said again, once they were seated with steaming cuppas in the little sitting room charmed into a corner of Greenhouse Three. "I don't know if it's a sexual 'them,' though, and if you think sex is essential to happiness, well, then I can't swear they have it."

She grinned at him. "Not that I have anything against sex, mind. But it's not all there is to being with someone. I'll tell you what we do know about Minerva and Will: whatever they have, it's lasted nearly sixty years. And that's impressive. If you're still friends with Potter and Weasley and the rest of them in sixty years, consider yourself blessed."

"I will," said Neville, and he meant it. But somehow the idea of sitting around with grey and balding old men, however close he felt to them, wasn't really what he wanted out of his so-called golden years.

Pomona looked at him shrewdly. "But you don't think that's enough, do you? You still want. . .what did you call it? 'Love and sexual satisfaction?'" 

Neville nodded, and Pomona patted his arm.

"Well," she said, "as to sexual satisfaction, I make no pronouncements about that. To each his own. . .or her own. But love, Neville. . .if that's what you're worried about, don't be. There's love aplenty, all sorts of it. Enough for _all_ of us to find the sort we need." She looked at him meaningfully. "You included. You'll find your sort. And I'll tell you this: Minerva and Will have found _their_ sort. Whatever else they share or don't share, they share that. I'd bet Greenhouse Three on it."

She freshened her tea and Neville's, added milk to hers, and stirred briskly. "Now tell me. How is Miss Abbott finding life at the Leaky Cauldron? I thought she looked very well at the Christmas party. . ."

She chattered on, sipping her tea, patting his hand again, pressing him to take another choccy biccy, while the late afternoon sun slanted lower and lower through the windows, and Hogwarts settled ever deeper into Neville's bones.

He sat back and gave himself over to the comfort of Pomona's voice and to the pictures in his head: of Hannah in her pretty blue party robes. Of Ron, beaming as he handed round pictures of his wrinkly baby. 

And of Will and Minerva, standing side-by-side in the shimmering glow of their Christmas tree.

~~end


End file.
